


Fine China

by orphan_account



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon-Typical Behavior, Childhood Trauma, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, House Being House, Hurt Robert Chase, I Messed with Canon, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Non-Graphic Smut, Recreational Drug Use, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, past self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 11:04:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: 18+ ONLY. DO NOT READ OR OTHERWISE INTERACT WITH MY CONTENT IF YOURE UNDER 18.The sequence of events that began with Chase's father dying and ended with him crying on Wilson's couch at one in the morning.There's nothing particularly graphic in this but it is quite dark so as usual please heed the tags. I also completely ignored the part in canon where Chase accidentally killed a patient after his dad died and got suspended so please bear this in mind.
Relationships: Robert Chase/James Wilson, Robert Chase/OMC
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55





	Fine China

Wilson's car is warm, but Chase is still shivering. He's drenched from the rain he stood in for twenty minutes while he waited, but there was no way he was going back into the bar for shelter. He wouldn't even go back in to retrieve his coat.

Wilson is in his pyjamas. When Chase steals a glance at him, his eyes are fixed on the road ahead, on the rain battering the windshield. His grip on the steering wheel has turned his knuckles white.

Chase desperately wants to say something. Something like, _I'm sorry. Thank you for getting out of bed to come pick me up. It'll never happen again._ But he's too stunned.

Wilson probably wants to say something too. Something like, _you're a mess. You can't dump me then get hammered and call me for a ride. You're a selfish ass._ But he's too nice.

His face says it all for him anyway.

When they get to the end of the street, Wilson takes the wrong turn for Chase's apartment. “You're staying at mine,” he says, by way of explanation. “I'm not leaving you by yourself.”

Chase wraps his arms around himself. His t-shirt is damp and cool against his abdomen. He's burned up all the energy he has to argue that he'll be fine, that he wants to be alone anyway. He's not even so sure how true the latter part is tonight. So he just mumbles a “thanks.”

Wilson clears his throat; slows down for the upcoming red light. “You need help, Chase.”

Not long ago, he'd started calling him Robert. Not anymore.

Chase has lost his flair for arguing with that statement too. So he just nods faintly and murmurs, “I know.”

When they get to Wilson's apartment, he brings him a towel from the bathroom to dry off and brews some tea to sober him up. They both know that doesn't really work, but Wilson always needs to feel like he's doing something. And Chase has no right to degrade his efforts by refusing. He changes into the dry pyjamas Wilson lends him and sits on his couch, holding his mug in both hands, letting the beverage kiss his palms with warmth.

Wilson sits beside him, his own mug on the coffee table. “Please talk to me, Chase.” 

_Talk to him_. And say what? I made a mistake? I miss you? I lied to you?

He'll likely know that last part by now. It's been several hours since Chase's conversation with House. More than enough time for House to barge into Wilson's office and spill the beans all over the floor in his haste to share that he'd solved his little puzzle. Like a kid seeking adulation for a shitty drawing.

Chase can't say any of this to Wilson. Shame is a furtive, possessive thing. It bullies you into silence. When its threatened with discovery, it makes you do stupid things to keep it hidden.

Stupid things like mulling over how pretty Wilson's lips are. Like choosing this moment to remember how safe and needed he felt when Wilson held him, how he marvelled at his gentle touch, how his body felt so warm and solid pressed up against him as he fell asleep.

His lips have barely touched Wilson's before he's grunting his protest and throwing his hands up against Chase's shoulders. He doesn't push him away hard, but the fact that he does at all, and so quickly, has him crumbling where he sits.

“Hey,” Wilson breathes. “What was that?”

Chase shrugs, staring at his lap. “It... was a kiss.”

“Exactly!” He sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. He looks exhausted. Burned out. “Did you forget the part where you _broke up_ with me?”

“I'm sorry.” Chase swallows at the thickness forming in his throat, hating himself for the crack in his voice.

“Are you okay?”

Wilson hovers in his peripheral vision, his features taut with concern, and Chase hates himself. _I treated him like shit and he still cares about me._

“Hey,” Wilson says, as Chase digs the heel of his palm into his eye to catch the tear that spills from it.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry...”

He repeats the phrase over and over until a loud, bitter sob escapes his throat. Wilson shifts off the couch, sitting on his haunches before him on the floor. Chase cups a hand over his forehead, in a vain attempt to conceal his face.

“Oh, god. Please don't cry, Chase.” He can hear the note of helplessness in his voice, so familiar to him these days. Half of his interactions consist of people speaking to him with that tone. “Listen, whatever's going on, you can tell me. I can help. Surely you're not this upset just because I won't kiss you? You're drunk. You're not thinking clearly. You just broke up with me...”

“And now you know why!” he exclaims, before he can stop himself. “Don't play dumb. I know House told you.”

Wilson doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, as Chase feels a gentle, comforting hand come down on his arm, he sniffs angrily and chances meeting his eyes. His expression hurts; concern, sadness. Confusion. Genuine confusion.

“House hasn't told me anything,” he says. “He just... badgered me to talk to you. Which is odd in itself. But...” He shrugs. “That's it. Tell me what's going on. Please?”

Chase pauses for a moment, scanning Wilson's face for a tell; any twitch of his lips, any flicker of his eyes to the right, a sign he's fabricating this. He finds none. He angrily wipes at his cheeks. Fucking House.

He draws a shuddering breath, closing his eyes. “James, I...”

That hand moves softly against his shoulder, rubbing comforting circles. “What is it?”

Chase avoids his eyes. He hopes the words will come.

**

Not so long ago, Chase had dared to hope that he might actually turn out okay. He'd long since escaped Australia. He had a good job. Sure, his boss was a tosser, but many young doctors would give all four of their limbs to be in his position. He had an apartment. He had friends. He took his antidepressants. No one around him cared that he was gay, and as a result he was caring less and less as well. He had his bad days, but he'd accepted that sometimes things would remind him of the life he left behind. He dealt with it. He soldiered on. He got by.

Then that phone call.

He wished he hadn't received it at work. He wished he hadn't received it at all.

How could his father not tell him that he was fucking _dying_?

How could his father not give him one last chance? One last opportunity to ask the questions that had stripped him of peace for so many years, to have the conversations he imagined them having, to see if he really would apologise for everything the way he did in Chase's head? To tell him what he truly thought of him: _you're a cowardly, selfish bastard who left a child to care for an alcoholic and an even younger child all by himself, just because you didn't have the drive to step up. I hate you, and I'll never forgive you. Oh and by the way, I'm gay._

So many times Chase had wished him dead. He hadn't meant it. He'd been young, messed up, confused, afraid. Had he made it happen?

He didn't go back to Australia for the funeral. Couldn't even bear the thought of it.

For two weeks, he went to work and came home again to sit on the couch and stare at a TV he wasn't really watching. He fingered the scars on his left arm and rolled his joints stronger than usual, until he got so sick of being stoned and still miserable that he popped an Ambien and went to bed. He'd arrive at work early the next morning, groggy and praying for something interesting to come through the door, something in which he could completely lose himself.

_Do I still love him? Should I still love him? Would I have felt any better if I had the chance to forgive him?_

He'd never felt so empty.

He started going out after work instead of going home. He went to bars alone, then went to clubs with whoever he picked up along the way. Sometimes he'd go home with men he'd only known for half an hour, and the sex would be quick and tepid and stale, smacking of two people using each other to stop their pain for a while; just some sense of closeness to another human being, however clinical, however disconnected, however little he remembered their names. It was something. Brett was someone he slept with three times, twice at his apartment and once in the bathroom of a club he had no idea how he ended up in. He was nice enough, a pharmacist or something, but Chase would never date him. Their liaisons only took place when they happened to run into each other, and Chase never gave him his number.

Vodka made him sick, whisky made him anxious. His mum used to drink wine, so he avoided that altogether. He hated the taste of alcohol, but he liked what it did, that temporary removal from reality. It was worth praying for death as he sat through differentials and ran tests until he could sneak into a vacant clinic room to quickly get some IV fluids into himself.

Cocaine made him feel invincible for half an hour, until he was driven to taking hits on someone's joint in the smoking area to take the edge off the wired, arid aftermath. If it wasn't too late, he'd go back inside and hit the dancefloor, swaying his hips to songs he hated and feeling powerful, desired when a string of men would fall all over themselves to press themselves up against him. Sometimes he'd kiss them, sometimes not. He preferred the older ones, but he settled for those closer to his age when they weren't available.

At work, he was moody, unapproachable. He snapped at Foreman a lot. He stopped rolling his eyes with good natured fervour when House laid into him for being Australian, or pretty, or whatever his fixation was that day. He shut Cameron down if she asked him how he was doing. Everyone who asked, actually: people were asking him that a lot. Cuddy approached him in the clinic area and lowered her voice to tell him she could refer him to the staff's psychologist if he wanted. He turned her down.

As he parked his car in the mornings, nauseous and fit to burst with shame, he told himself he was just going through a phase.

**

When he's pursuing a relationship and not just a series of quick fucks, Chase knows that he does not choose suitable men. In fact, he chooses profoundly unsuitable ones as naturally as daffodils bloom in spring. He chooses men who are married. Men who don't call. Men who shower him with pretty words then disappear from his life. Men twice his age, men who cheat, men who get obsessive over his movements then leave abusive voicemails for him when he gets scared and calls things off.

He'll try to please, try to be who they want him to be. He sticks around when it's hopeless. He cries bitterly when things end and curses himself for ignoring the flags that shone crimson from the word “hello.”

It was no secret that Wilson was interested in him. He'd taken a shine to him from the moment he started working for House, finding excuses to drop by and talk to him, or making himself stupidly available if Chase needed anything. House teased him about it, but probably nowhere near as much as he teased Wilson when they were alone. Cameron giggled when she saw them talking, expressed that she found it adorable. Foreman probably didn't even notice.

Chase liked Wilson enough, just like everyone else did. Sure, he was very good looking. He was as smart as House, just as brilliant at his job and he was nice to absolutely everybody. But that was just it: he wasn't Chase's type. He was just... nice. There wasn't much else to grab his interest. The most interesting thing about him, actually, was his friendship with House, who was his polar opposite in almost every sense.

So when Wilson asked him out to dinner, twice, he politely declined on both occasions and tried not to smart with guilt at the dejected look on his face.

Besides, wasn't he trying to be more attentive to red flags? Despite the niceness, Wilson had a reputation for being utterly shit at relationships, after all. He was at least 12 years older than him. He had three ex-husbands. There were rumours that he cheated on at least one of them. His therapist complex was as well known as Chase's daddy issues, which led him to theorise that maybe Wilson just saw him as some kind of fixer-upper, like an old condo that could be made shiny with a lick of paint, some quirky furniture choices. Surely this could never work.

Was fourth time lucky a thing? Sometimes, in lonelier moments, despite everything, he really wondered about it.

He remembered the morning he gave in. It was a Tuesday, maybe, and Chase was hungover. He'd stayed in the previous night with a bottle of vodka and somewhere along the way, he'd had a meltdown he barely remembered the beginnings of. But he remembered punching a wall in his bedroom, remembered the dent he'd left in the plaster.

His hand still ached. There was a scab forming over his knuckles, and he kept reopening the wound accidentally. He'd been in one of the clinic rooms, bandaging himself up, when Wilson had conveniently walked in to speak to him as he so often did.

He opened with, “House said you might need a consult on your patient,” as his eyes strayed down to Chase's hand. “What happened?”

Chase had shrugged. “Just cut my knuckle by accident.”

Wilson approached. “Let me see.”

He'd reluctantly offered Wilson his hand to look at, knowing it would just look more suspicious if he refused. Wilson held his wrist softly, eyebrows knitting as he peered at the wound. Then, wordlessly, he took the piece of gauze Chase had been dabbing at it with and started to clean around the edges himself.

“I know things are hard for you right now,” he said quietly, “but if you keep doing this, you're gonna break your hand.”

Chase felt his stomach knot as he watched Wilson wipe away the dried blood. He wanted to deny it; wanted to reassure Wilson that he was fine, it wasn't what he thought. But something stopped him.

He swallowed. “It won't happen again. I just had a bad day yesterday.”

And the day before that, and the week before that, he stopped himself from adding.

Wilson nodded. “I get it. But you've got to start reaching out, Chase. There's no reason you need to deal with this by yourself.”

He discarded the gauze and reached for the band aid Chase had laid out in preparation, not letting go of his wrist for a moment. It felt... nice. Nice, to have even such a small part of him held with care and concern.

Chase knew he was staring at Wilson when he glanced up and threw him a wary smile. He suddenly felt like he might cry.

“Does that dinner invite still stand?” The question left his lips before he had a chance to think any better of it.

Wilson smiled, wide, brightly. “Of course. Thursday?”

**

Thursday came.

Chase had been regretting it a little. He'd never wanted to date Wilson before; he'd been vulnerable, emotional, Wilson had been there for him. That was the fuel for his decision. Nothing more.

Still, he figured, as Wilson knocked on his door, at least he could use tonight to prove to himself once and for all that they had nothing in common. Plus, afterwards, perhaps he could tell Wilson he'd make his own way home and go check out that new bar down the street.

Wilson knew how to pick a nice restaurant. It was the kind Chase never went to anymore, the kind where the waiters pour the wine with a flick of their wrist and insist on your feedback before bringing you the whole bottle. When he politely declined any himself with the vague explanation that he just didn't like wine, Wilson didn't question him.

Chase hadn't expected much out of the evening. He certainly hadn't expected to enjoy himself.

He liked the way Wilson looked at him, with a softness in his eyes and a half-smile on his lips. The way he laughed, the way he threw his head back a little when he found something really funny. He was certainly displaying much more of a sense of humour than he ever did at work. Then again, cancer wasn't really very comical.

He liked the way he pulled Chase's chair out for him before he sat down himself when they first arrived. The way he asked Chase questions about himself and listened to every word, not interrupting with his own stories. The way he respectfully backed off when Chase didn't want to discuss anything related to Australia or his family. The way he took his hand across the table, cupping it between both palms, how soft his fingertips felt as they traced patterns across his skin.

Chase had to ask. As the urge grew, he found himself barely listening to Wilson's story about something utterly outrageous House did as a med student; poked at an oily potato on his plate as he tried to formulate the most subtle way to get his answer. Then, when Wilson finished, he took a breath.

“Why do you like me?” he asked.

Wilson frowned, putting down his fork. Chase waited for the usual answers: _you're hot. I like your accent. I like your body._ “You make me happy,” he said, simply.

Well, that was one he hadn't heard before. “What do you mean?”

Wilson smiled. “Are you angling for an ego stroking?”

“No.” Chase smiled back, playing along. “I just... need to know what you want from me.”

Wilson nodded, taking a sip of his wine. Chase felt as though he could smell it from where he sat. He hated that smell. “I want to spend time with you,” he said. “Which we're doing. So I guess we'll go from here.”

Chase wasn't hungry anymore. His gut felt full with something, not anxiety, not the swollen pain that was the norm these days. It was something... pleasant.

“As for why I like you,” Wilson continued, “I just like being around you. You're funny, you're smart. And you can handle House.” He nodded to emphasise his point. “Very high on the criteria list.”

_And I've got problems, _Chase thought to himself. _You find that irresistible._

Maybe he was being unfair.

He let Wilson drive him home. Drinking alone at that bar suddenly didn't sound quite so appealing.

“I had fun tonight,” Wilson said, as they pulled up outside Chase's apartment complex. He noticed the way he left the engine running. “I hope we can do it again.”

“Definitely,” Chase found himself saying, unable to help the spark of excitement he felt at Wilson's beaming smile in response. He glanced at the dashboard, then back at Wilson. “Err... do you want to come in? It's still early.”

They always seemed to appreciate it when you showed willingness to put out early on. He had paid for dinner, after all.

Wilson, though, shook his head. “Not tonight. We're still getting to know each other. Let's just... see what happens.”

“Okay.” Chase mumbled his surprise, as Wilson leant over to plant a gentle, lingering kiss on his cheek. His lips were impossibly soft. Chase wanted to feel them against his own, but he suspected he'd have to wait a while for that too.

“Goodnight, Chase.”

That kiss seemed to dance on his skin for hours. Chase laid on his couch, sober, calm, as he gazed up at a crack in the ceiling and imagined how secure and content he'd feel in Wilson's arms.

**

There were things Chase worried about when it came to Wilson.

They'd made the joint decision not to tell House yet. Neither man knew how he'd react, and neither of them really wanted to deal with the verbal lashings until it was completely unavoidable. Still, Chase knew House had a way of finding out everything about Wilson. He was already quietly preparing his comebacks in anticipation of the flack.

He wondered if Wilson would think he was a slut, if he were to find out just how many people he'd slept with recently. Was there any need to tell him? Since their first date, he hadn't fucked anybody. He'd got himself tested; he was good. That was, as far as he was concerned, in the past.

Wilson knew he drank too much. He'd suggested Chase talk to somebody about it, and he'd been meaning to, he really had. It was just, they'd probably laugh in his face. It wasn't like he woke up shaking, wasn't like it was every single night. Most nights, at his age, was probably on the upper end of normal. And he knew people who drank more. They probably functioned even better than he did.

Wilson didn't know about the pot, the cocaine, the Ambien. The Ambien was medical at least. He knew about the depression, the Celexa, the insomnia. So why was Chase so reluctant to tell him about the Ambien? Probably the added weight of, “I take it every night I don't drink otherwise I don't sleep.” Yeah, that'll do it.

Wilson had never seen beneath the long sleeves he always wore, the scars on his left forearm. When he was fourteen, before he discovered alcohol, drugs and sex, cutting himself felt like the best way to cope. It was a shame that he couldn't hide that bad decision. Years later, when his father finally noticed the marks, he'd been disgusted. What if Wilson was too?

Despite his fears, Chase dared to hope that maybe was doing better. He and Foreman were getting along. Cameron and Cuddy checked in with him less. He stopped going to clubs, to bars. When he felt empty in the evenings, he called Wilson, and Wilson always picked up. Sometimes he drove over so they could go for a walk around the neighbourhood, and Chase wouldn't want to talk but he would want to hear about Wilson's day. Sometimes Wilson would hold his hand, and it would feel so good that Chase could hardly stand it.

Wilson kissed him for the first time after their third date, outside the restaurant, and Chase found himself holding his breath. It was the way he put his arms around his waist, the way his tongue gently probed the corners of his mouth, the way he mumbled something about how he'd wanted to do this for years when he pulled away. The way he smiled giddily before pulling him back in for more, the way Chase eagerly granted him it and wondered, just for a moment, if he might be in love.

**

The first time Wilson made love to him, he treated Chase's body like it was fine china.

Chase clung to him as his lips brushed his throat, working down to his clavicle as he began to undress him, all the while planting those kisses all over his flesh as he exposed it. He shuddered when Wilson dropped to his knees like he was worshipping him, sucking on the sensitive skin of his abdomen as he tugged at Chase's belt buckle. His fingers seized into claws against the wall behind him, nails scraping the plaster as Wilson slid down his pants and mouthed the bulge in his boxers through the material with a quiet moan, a longing sigh. It made Chase brave; made him shrug off his open shirt, the one he usually tried to keep on during such encounters. He wasn't quite bold enough to keep his eyes open as Wilson took his hand and pressed a further kiss to the mottled, white scars on his forearm. Couldn't trust himself to respond for the burning in his throat as Wilson murmured, “you're wonderful, darling.”

Chase had grown used to getting sex over and done with as quickly as possible, focusing on the physical pleasure alone and avoiding eye contact with whoever was above him. With Wilson, he savoured every moment; those long, exquisite kisses, the need he felt to peel off Wilson's clothes like expensive giftwrap, slowly, not wanting to waste any part of his body. He lay on his bed as Wilson settled between his legs, fingering him open with caution and asking how he felt with every ministration as Chase arched and gasped beneath him.

He took him so gently, entering him inch by inch, releasing a soft moan once he was fully sheathed within him. It was delicious, a beautiful sound, one that Chase wished he could record and play on repeat forever.

Wilson kept one hand on his hip, the other cupping his face, his eyes foggy with pleasure as he whispered, “you feel amazing. You're so beautiful, Robert, so strong, so...”

He trailed off after a while, losing himself, and Chase rocked his hips to meet his slow, measured thrusts as he moaned his bliss. It wasn't about how good it felt, it wasn't about getting off. It was about being close, connected. Chase had never felt so precious to anybody, and in that, he felt free. Free enough to let himself weep a little for all the times he'd gone to bed with someone who made him feel worthless, and Wilson just held his hands and kissed away his tears like he understood.

**

Wilson was wonderful. Chase was pretty sure of that. There was still plenty of time for Wilson to prove him wrong, but right now, he chose to see him as nothing less than perfect.

But even Wilson couldn't protect him from the really bad days. The kind when he was on clinic duty and a woman stinking of alcohol brought in her young daughter, who told him her symptoms all by herself because mummy could barely string a sentence together. It was too close, too raw. The kind when House's pain was really bad and he was unbearable to be around, snapping and snarking and impossible to please. The kind when an overworked Cuddy needed someone to yell at and he happened to be close by, the kind when memories of his father just wouldn't stop popping up no matter how much he tried to distract himself. The sort of day when just calling Wilson to shoot the shit wouldn't make him feel better.

The bartender kept trying to make conversation with him. “Haven't seen you here for a while. Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Chase replied, staring into his glass and wondering how he'd finished his third vodka and lemonade already.

“Hmm,” the bartender said, a little suspiciously, just like everyone else. He returned to polishing glasses and left Chase alone until he was ready to order his fourth drink.

“Robert?”

His head snapped up at the sound of a familiar voice from behind him. Brett, the only guy he'd slept with more than once, was approaching him. Oh, god. The last thing he wanted was company.

Still, he stood up from the barstool and forced a smile. “Hey. What you doing here?”

Brett shrugged. “Bored. You gonna get me a drink, then?”

Chase grumbled inwardly, but got him a drink anyway.

They settled into a booth near the door, and as Brett talked his ear off about work, his cat, his annoying Aunt Tilda – drivel Chase would usually politely sit through before they went back to his to fuck – he considered heading home. Perhaps he would call Wilson after all. He had been talking to him more lately; not just about superficial things as a distraction, but the difficult stuff, the things he didn't like to share with anybody. Watching his mother deteriorate. Ensuring his sister had enough to eat in between getting his homework done. Wondering when his father was going to realise he was being a cunt and come home. The day he realised that he wasn't going to.

“And so I told her, if she thinks she has a bunion, she needs to go see a doctor,” Brett was finishing, when Chase started paying attention again. “You're a doctor, right?”

“Something like that,” Chase said vaguely, because he really didn't want this man to figure out where he worked.

“Uh huh,” he said, not interested anyway. “So why don't we have a few more drinks and then head to your place?”

Chase shook his head. “Sorry, Brett. I'm actually seeing someone now.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, like he was surprised. Chase was a little offended. “Is it serious?”

He felt the little smile touch his lips as he replied, “I hope so. I like him a lot.”

He caught a flash of something pass through Brett's eyes. Something like hurt, but something a little bit vicious. Whatever it was, it made him uncomfortable.

“Oh,” he said again. No surprise this time. Deflated.

Chase hadn't noticed before how close together his eyes were, how his hairline receded slightly. Then again, he was only a little buzzed. Usually when he was around Brett, he was wasted.

He shrugged. “Yeah. Sorry.” He glanced at his drink. Almost finished. He would go home, he decided. He wanted to hear Wilson's voice, especially as Brett was a surprisingly unpleasant reminder of the lifestyle he was trying to leave behind. “Just gonna go pay my tab,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “I've got an early start tomorrow.”

Brett's face fell. “That doesn't usually stop you.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, as he stood up. “I'm trying to straighten out a bit.”

It was true. He was definitely drinking much less, and no hard drugs at all. As he paid his tab, the bartender made some snarky comment about how Chase was going to put him out of business, barely coming by anymore and then leaving so early, and Chase decided to let it go. In a strange way, it was probably a good sign.

He slipped back into the booth, reaching for the remainder of his drink. Although it would be great to stop at one, stopping at four is still a huge improvement. And Brett seemed to have perked up slightly, apparently getting over the fact that he wouldn't be getting laid tonight. Not with Chase, anyway.

“So,” he said, taking a sip and making a face. He'd only just noticed how awful this vodka tasted. Even for vodka. The friendly barkeep must have given him the house brand. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Nothing serious,” Brett replied. “I actually have plans with someone tonight.”

Chase frowned, confused. “Then why were you free to see me?”

He smiled. “Just made them.”

“Right.”

Brett was weird. Brett was definitely a lot weirder when Chase wasn't wrecked out of his mind. He needed to go.

“Hey, I don't suppose you could give me some advice on this bunion issue, could you?” Brett asked, just as Chase downed the remainder of his drink. It really did taste bad. Perhaps he was just losing his taste for alcohol. Which could only be a good thing.

He didn't even particularly like the effects tonight. He guessed it was catching up with him. He was starting to feel foggy, tired. “Can give you some quick advice,” he said, swaying a little where he sat as he groped for his coat on the seat next to him. “Should really go, though.”

“I'll be quick,” Brett said.

He wasn't quick; he rambled on for ages. Why did Chase feel like he owed him? He didn't understand himself.

He didn't understand why he felt so wasted suddenly either. Didn't understand why he wasn't able to get out of the booth without Brett helping him, why the bartender glared at him so much as he staggered towards the door. Didn't understand why he couldn't form coherent words, his lips paralysed, his tongue like cotton.

When Brett got into the taxi back to his apartment with him, he understood. But by then, he couldn't do anything about it.

**

Chase phoned in sick to work. Cuddy would be mad, House would have questions, Foreman and Cameron would be worried. Wilson would definitely know something was up.

Wilson. How would he begin to tell him? Did he even want to tell him?

No point in hurting him too.

_I'll just hurt him anyway eventually. I'm a fuck up. I hurt everyone._

He was still dazed, out of it. He was lying on the living room floor because he somehow felt dizzier on the couch, a bucket beside him in preparation for the bouts of vomiting that just wouldn't abate. His head ached. Every part of his body hurt a little bit, but he focused on his head. At least he knew why that hurt.

He remembered stabs, flashes. The way he couldn't raise his arms to stop Brett from removing his clothes. Being moved onto his front at one point. The terror he felt as hands moved up and down his thighs. Not being able to communicate how afraid he was.

Chase drew his legs to his chest on the floor. He had options – tell Cuddy, go to the police. There were things he had to do out of necessity – get tested, examine himself for damage when he could bear it. He couldn't stand the thought of going to see another doctor. In fact, he couldn't bear any of it, so he just laid there on the floor and thought, quite seriously, about praying.

Chase drifted in and out of sleep. He decided that he'd take another shower when the room stopped spinning quite so much.

_It's my fault. I never should have got involved with him. If I wasn't out there drinking and screwing around in the first place, this never would have happened._

At some point, he was woken up by the phone ringing. Just as he was considering getting up to take it off the hook, the answer machine picked up: “Hey, Robert, it's only me. I heard you're sick. I'm sorry. I'll swing by later to check on you. Call me when you can.”

Wilson's voice was like a warm blanket, the concern in his voice more than Chase could bear.

_I don't deserve Wilson. And he deserves a lot better than dealing with my shit._

Chase covered his ears, as if the message would repeat.

He did sit and talk to Brett, after all. A man he barely knew, a man who gave him a bad feeling. And yet he sat and listened to him. Gave him the time of day. Led him on.

It was just like cheating.

**

It wasn't that bad. Not really.

It was only one guy. Some people have to deal with multiple. They suffer a lot worse.

It wasn't like he remembered much about it, anyway. What you didn't know couldn't hurt you. It would be nice if it hadn't happened in his bed, though. The bed he'd begun sharing with Wilson, when he stayed over.

Chase had taken to sleeping on the couch. He had a permanently stiff neck. He needed to take two Ambien these days to get even four hours of sleep in.

He'd been through the motions. Got tested – no STDs. Checked himself for damage – all looked fine. He didn't know what he'd do if he did have to go to the ER.

He'd been trying to forget about it, with varying degrees of success. Something like this happened to most people at some point.

He'd been trying to forget Wilson's face too, when he told him it was over. “I cheated,” he told him. “I'm sorry.”

He didn't think Wilson really believed him, but he'd nodded his head and wished Chase goodnight before going home. Chase didn't hear his car pull away for quite some time.

He didn't really feel much of anything. He sat in on differentials and tried to entertain House's lunacy, understand his riddles and follow his instructions. Tried not to get distracted by that phantom sensation of hands on his thighs, roaming, touching, taking...

“Could be MS,” Foreman was saying, looking impatient. 

“Doesn't explain the rash,” Cameron countered. She glanced at House for approval like she always did as she added, “could be lymphoma. It accounts for most of the symptoms on the board.”

House was standing before the conference table, with his usual air of presiding over everything, cane slung up over his shoulder. “Am I having a stroke?” he snapped. “Did we not just cover all the reasons why it's definitely not lymphoma, in detail, about an hour ago? I mean, you're so skinny I can barely see you, but I'm pretty sure you were present for that.”

Cameron's eyes returned to her notepad. “Oh, yeah. Right.”

“Right,” House repeated.

Chase didn't remember the lymphoma conversation either, but he probably wasn't paying attention.

“Let's see if Jason Donovan has any ideas.” When Chase looked up, House was glaring at him. “Go.”

“Um.” He scratched his head, as if making a show of seriously considering it. “Why was it not lymphoma again?”

He heard Foreman scoff. House looked positively murderous, as he slapped his cane to the floor and started pacing across the room. As he passed him, Chase felt a prick of pain at the back of his scalp. His head snapped up, a rage he couldn't explain rising within him. “Did you just pull my hair?”

He noticed House sticking his hand in his pocket as he reached the board. “Test for MS,” he said, ignoring him. “Cameron, go arrange an LP. Foreman, go get some more details from the patient about her leg pain.”

Chase noticed the way they both glanced at him as they got to their feet. He watched House warily, waiting for his instruction.

As Cameron and Foreman slipped out of the door, House uncapped a pen and started to scrawl something on the board. “You,” he said, without looking at him, “go deal with your personal crap. I'm giving you an hour to pull your head out your ass.”

Chase swallowed. “I'm okay, I can...”

Why the fuck did House pull his hair? Did he imagine it? Was he completely losing his shit?

House didn't look up. “Chase. Go take an hour's break or I'm sending you home.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but House was using his best Don't Argue With Me tone. It would be a complete waste of breath.

**

Chase went to the chapel. It was always empty in the middle of the day.

He sat in a pew at the back and tried to focus on the detail in the strained glass; tried to identify the Biblical scenes and figures portrayed within. The small, leather bound Bible felt heavy in his hands. He kept meaning to open it, but something was stopping him. The fear that he wouldn't find the comfort he was looking for. The fear that maybe he would, triggering a reverse crisis of faith. Make him start to regret not sticking with his original career path, not sticking with God. Maybe if he'd been strong enough to keep believing, he would have been protected. Maybe God wouldn't have let this happen to him.

He was more than a little surprised when he heard the chapel door open; when there was a thud against the hard floor, a few shuffling steps. He didn't need to look around to know that House had found him. “I still have half an hour,” he said.

“I know.” House stopped beside him, leaning on his cane where he stood. “Thought you might want some company. You know, aside from the dude from the sky. He's not actually in here, you know. I checked.”

Chase smiled faintly. He shifted on the pew so House could sit down, wondering if House would be giving this rare glimpse into his human side at all if he knew that Chase had hurt Wilson. Unless he knew everything, and he was merely trying to earn his trust so he could lunge for him then slit his throat. Wouldn't, Chase reflected, be entirely undeserved.

“You gonna tell me what's going on?” House asked, after a period of silence.

Chase shook his head. “Can we leave it at personal crap?”

“We could.” When House reached for the Bible in his hands, he let him take it without protest; watched as he placed it on the seat the other side of him, then pushed it further away as an afterthought. “Or, you could tell me why you and Wilson broke up.”

Chase felt a jerk in his gut. When he turned to face House, he was looking straight back at him; he didn't look angry, or vengeful. Just curious. Chase hesitated a moment before asking, “how did you find out?”

“He told me.” House shrugged, then added, “eventually.”

Chase wondered why he was surprised. Of course House would find out somehow. He briefly wondered if he'd had to badger Wilson for hours to get it out of him, or if Wilson had just come out with it. “Is he okay?” he asked.

House tapped his cane against the floor. “Well, he was crying in his office this morning. What do you think that indicates?”

Chase closed his eyes for a moment. He felt like someone had cut off one of his limbs. Wilson, hurting, because of him. Wilson, who'd been nothing but wonderful to him. Wilson, who deserved better.

“Why aren't you mad?” was all he could think to ask.

“Because something isn't making sense.” As House twisted his lips in thought, Chase felt his heart hammer against his ribcage. “Once it makes sense, I'll decide whether to be mad or not. So that's why I need you to tell me what really happened.”

What did he mean? What could possibly not make sense about the version of events he'd been presented with, presuming Wilson had given him the right one? Chase tried to keep his voice even as he asked, “what have you heard?”

“Wilson said you cheated.”

_Phew._

He shrugged. “Well, that's what happened. I don't know what else to tell you.”

House frowned. “I don't believe you. You'd never admit to it so quickly.”

A laugh escaped Chase then, mirthless, incredulous. “Wow. Thanks, House. Really.”

Was this his way of exacting revenge? Or was he really so oblivious to human emotion that he actually thought that was a helpful thing to say? Chase felt sick.

As House placed a hand on his shoulder, Chase flinched. It was, he recognised, nice; the closest House could ever get to giving another human being a hug. It didn't stop him from shrugging him off with such force that House's eyes widened, astounded. Didn't stop Chase's cheeks from burning up when he realised what he'd done; shame, and remorse.

He could feel those hands on his thighs again as he mumbled, “sorry. I'd just... rather you didn't touch me.”

House pursed his lips, nodding slowly. “Okay. Then I won't touch you. When you wanna tell me what happened, I'll be around.”

Chase turned his eyes to his lap as House stood up. He didn't say anything else before heading for the chapel door.

As he heard it swing closed, heard the tapping and footsteps fade away down the hall, he made a grab for the Bible that House confiscated and held it to his chest.

**

Chase stopped going out.

He went to work. He found excuses to go in early, stay late. He wasted his time with unnecessary paperwork. He showered twice every evening, in between rolling joints so strong they burned his throat. Sometimes, when he could stomach it, he ate a meal. Others, he just drank half a bottle of vodka.

He tried to listen to music, but it no longer touched anything within him. He bought an extra chain for his front door, just in case Brett decided to come back. He moved everything he needed into the living room and locked his bedroom door, deciding he'd never go back in there. He thought about looking for a new place, but he couldn't get it together to check the paper for listings.

He made mistakes at work. Nothing major; silly things, but he still evoked House's wrath and condescending remarks from Foreman.

When he had to interact with Wilson, he thought he might fall apart. He'd look at his arms and remember how tightly he held him, as Wilson discussed cases with him with the same formal, friendly professionalism he awarded to everybody else. No flirtatious smiles, no little touches on his back, no sneaky kisses when they were sure nobody was looking. They weren't James and Robert; they were just Dr Wilson and Dr Chase talking about symptoms that may or may not be cancer. Every now and then, he'd catch a glint of hurt in Wilson's eyes and he'd ache so much that he'd have to excuse himself.

He thought about talking to him. He really did. But the thought that Wilson wouldn't be interested, maybe not even believe him... well, that was too much to bear.

Sometimes, Chase couldn't breathe. He'd dart into supply closets, empty side rooms, placing his palms flat against cold walls until the choking feeling subsided. He'd focus on his feet planted on the floor, count objects in the room, until his heart rate started to slow down. Then he'd smooth out his hair, wipe his cheeks and carry on as though nothing had happened.

“I'm worried about you,” Cameron said to him, quietly one morning, as he faffed around with coffee and tried to remember whether House was taking sugar today. “We all are. Something's off. Even House is worried about you.”

“You been talking about me?” was all he could think to respond with.

Cameron turned a little pink. “Chase, people are gonna talk about you when you barely say a word anymore and keep disappearing for half an hour at a time. You can talk to me.”

_You can talk to me._ Foreman told him that, Cuddy said it in passing for the third time yesterday, House demanded it in the chapel, and yet he didn't give in. He didn't want to talk. Why was everyone so insistent that he fucking talked?

“My father died,” he said, a little stiffly, taking the steaming mugs over to the conference room table. He could see House through the glass into his office, studying a sheet of paper intently. Chase watched as he folded it up and shoved it into the breast pocket of his blazer. “You're smothering me.”

He didn't look at Cameron as he sat down, throwing open his notepad with more vigour than he intended. She hovered for a moment, and Chase could hear the cogs turning in her mind, hear her groping for words. Eventually, she clicked her tongue and muttered a quiet, “okay.”

The day passed fairly uneventfully. Chase took bloods, made exhausting small talk with nurses, wrote up meds; he went to the chapel at lunchtime and stared at the back of the pew before him. He passed Wilson in the corridor, who gave him a friendly nod and nothing more. He wondered if Wilson missed him.

He was back in the conference room by 8pm, shrugging off his lab coat, ready to go home and lay on his couch. He still sort of hated it, feeling so imprisoned, feeling so immobile, but it was also becoming something of a warped comfort. Once he was inside, doors locked, left alone to his pot and his booze and his Ambien, all the things that hurt him on the outside felt less able to touch him. He'd get up and peer through the spyhole periodically, just to check that Brett wasn't hovering outside; he never kept his cellphone far from reach, just in case.

He didn't notice House at first, standing in the doorway where the room met his office. When Chase slung his bag over his shoulder and looked up, he jumped at the sight of him.

“Not so fast, Kylie,” he said, approaching him. “We need to talk.”

“Tomorrow,” Chase said. “I'm going home.” As he started for the door, House threw his cane out, blocking his path. Chase threw his hands up in exasperation, stopping. “Can't it wait?”

“Nope.”

As he reached into his breast pocket, Chase had a vague recollection of that morning, of House looking distant and fascinated as he stared at . The same sheet he was now shoving into Chase's hands.

“I tested your hair,” House said, as if he were announcing that he'd done Chase a favour. “It was a long shot, but GHB is detectable for up to a month.”

The paper shook violently in his grasp. “House,” he said, voice thick, incredulous, “you had no right...”

House waved his hand. “Don't worry. I'm willing to overlook that you were also positive for THC and cocaine, given the circumstances. I'll be subjecting you to random drug testing from now on, though. And I expect you to be clean.”

Chase stared at him, opening his mouth. It was like his vocal cords were paralysed. He managed only a barely audible grunt.

House was staring at him intently. He didn't look pleased with himself, like he usually did when he figured something out. From the way he chewed his lip, just slightly, Chase might almost think he was uncomfortable. But there was something else. Was that... sadness?

“I had to know,” he added quietly, as if that was meant to make Chase feel better. “You should tell Wilson you were raped.”

The word was like an uppercut straight to his gut, a razorblade to his ear. The ground seemed to jerk beneath his feet, House blurring before his eyes. It was as if he was watching himself, as he screwed the paper in his hand up into a ball. He tossed it at House, who caught it dutifully.

“You had no right,” he said again, voice small and unsteady. “This isn't one of your fucking puzzles, House.”

He shook his head. “No, it's not.”

“Then why did you do it?” Chase demanded. He could feel that choked feeling rising up again, his throat tightening, his eyes stinging. “Why can't you just leave me to it?”

“Because if you keep pushing everyone away, you're gonna end up alone.”

Chase almost laughed. That, coming from House, of all people? “Like you, you mean?” he snapped.

It was cruel, and he expected House to yell something back, something that would hit Chase twice as hard. He almost welcomed it. A fight would at least help him let off some steam.

But House didn't. He just nodded. “Trust me, it's not as much of a hoot as it looks. Talk to Wilson.”

Chase faltered; as House turned and started to walk away, paper ball still in hand, he drew in a deep breath. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“So am I,” House replied, not turning around. “I'm putting you on a week's medical leave. No drugs. Just figure this out. Oh, and did I mention talk to Wilson?”

As he reached the door back into his office, Chase followed. “I don't want medical leave-”

“I don't care.”

“House...”

“Go home.”

He didn't hold the door for him, but Chase followed anyway. He watched House sit down at his desk, glancing up at him with curiosity.

“Go home, Chase,” he repeated.

“Just one thing.” He hovered, slipping his hands in his pocket to hide their shaking. “You hate for anyone to date Wilson. Why are you so insistent that he and I work things out?”

House tossed the balled up toxicology screen from hand to hand like it was one of his tennis balls. “Wilson makes bad choices,” he said simply. “You're a slightly better one.”

As this sunk in, Chase couldn't help the flush of pride he felt at this statement, despite everything. It was a shitty, backhanded compliment from anyone else. From House, it was praise of the highest order.

And how could House possibly think he deserved it, after everything he'd done?

He found he was staring at his shoes as he mumbled, “I hurt him.”

“Someone hurt you.”

He could feel House's eyes on him. He felt vulnerable, naked. He couldn't bear to look at him.

“Now go home.”

**

Chase didn't go home.

It was raining when he got outside. As soon as he reached his car, he crumbled. He sat in the driver's seat for a long time, hood up, arms folded, the radio playing songs that all sounded the same.

His dad. The booze. Wilson. Brett. Medical leave. House, knowing about all of it. All tied up in his head, tethered in a loop like a daisy chain. He was beyond crying. Beyond wanting to shut himself away. At some point, he picked up his cellphone and lingered over Wilson's name, thumb trembling as it hovered over the call button. Something held him back.

He didn't just want to get drunk. He wanted to get trashed, fucked up, twatted. So beyond he couldn't even remember his own name, couldn't stand. As he drove into town, House's words echoed in his ears: “tell Wilson you were raped.”

It was the ugliest word he'd ever heard. The worst word in the English language, one he would avoid ever speaking again.

He picked a bar he'd never been to before, one with sports on the TV and groups of rowdy mechanics in the booths. One where he was sure he wouldn't run into anybody that he knew, anybody that he might have slept with. One where everyone minded their own business, one where he would be left alone.

“You should slow down,” the bartender, a woman with a New York accent and orange streaks in her hair, told him, as she handed him his fifth drink. “Have a lemonade next or something.”

“Yeah,” Chase said disinterestedly, feeling a faint panic at the thought that she might stop serving him if he showed any signs of being drunk.

But God, he didn't want to go home. Not tonight. Something had shifted, changed. Something that made hatred bubble up within him as he thought about lying on his couch, half-buzzed, playing music he used to enjoy as he idly scratched at his wrist. Nothing comforting about it at all tonight, the thought of being alone in his apartment with his thoughts, his memories, waking up tomorrow without even a place to go to hide from it all...

House was so cruel. Medical leave. What kind of crap was that? Like that wouldn't just draw more attention to him.

The bartender narrowed her eyes at him when he ordered drink number six, but she said nothing. It was almost worse that she said nothing. There was something in her gaze, something judgemental – like she'd never seen a standard drunkard before, which couldn't be possible – but also something that resembled pity. He was so sick of pity.

She was holding his drink when she suddenly made a face and headed to the back of the bar, off into a room adjacent to it. Of course, there could have been a mountain of reasons for it. Maybe someone dropped something, maybe the phone rang, something he couldn't hear over the roar of the men behind him as an apparently exciting move was played in the baseball game on TV. Maybe someone from the back just called her over. But Chase's nerves were alight with panic. The last time he'd lost sight of his drink...

_Don't be ridiculous,_ his rational mind, withered and atrophied from lack of use these days, tried to comfort him. _Why would she spike your drink? What reason would she have to do that?_

What good reason did his father have to do anything that he did? What reason did Brett have?

He didn't wait for her to return. He left his coat on the barstool. He was driven purely by impulse, as he darted towards the door, ignoring the stares from two women seated nearby at his haste. His hands shook so violently he could barely fumble his phone out of his pocket, the screen getting wet in the drizzle that continued to weep from the skies.

“Hello?” Wilson's voice was dim down the line, confused, half-asleep.

Chase huddled against the wall, trying to shield himself from the rain. “It's Robert. I need you to come pick me up.”

**  
Chase feels nauseous, dizzy, out of it. Whether it's the beginnings of a hangover or recounting everything out loud for the first time, he can't be sure.

All he knows is that Wilson sat quietly beside him and listened to every word. Occasionally, he closed his eyes, like he couldn't bear to hear anymore, but he didn't give up. Didn't interrupt. Didn't tell Chase he was a drunk like his mother, a coward like his father. Didn't once suggest that Chase brought all this on himself.

Maybe he didn't.

“Wow,” Wilson says eventually. “I... I had no idea it was that bad.”

“I'm sorry.” Chase must have uttered that phrase a thousand times this evening. At first, it was just about getting Wilson up in the middle of the night, but now, he's not even sure. It just feels like the right thing to say.

_I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry I'm a mess. I'm sorry to burden you with all of this._

Wilson just shakes his head. “Please stop saying that. I'm not mad at you. I just wish you would have told me.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I'm not mad at you,” he repeats.

Chase can feel fresh tears gathering in his eyes. Noticing, Wilson extends a hand to him; then falters.

“Is it okay if I hold you?” he asks quietly.

Chase nods.

As Wilson draws him into a cautious, soft embrace, he lets himself collapse against his chest. It's out. It's all finally out. He feels broken, destroyed, sick, but he's with Wilson. Wilson, who isn't mad at him, who wants to hold him. Who wants to help. He's missed this. Missed inhaling Wilson's scent, the cologne that lingers on his skin. Missed those soft, firm hands caressing his back, soothing, comforting. His voice, impossibly gentle, as he murmurs, “I'm here, Chase. I'm right here.”

Wilson doesn't want him to take the couch. He insists it's so he can make sure Chase doesn't puke in his sleep, but as he draws him close beneath the comforter in his bed and continues to whisper gently to him, he knows Wilson is lying. He thought he could never enjoy being touched again, being held. He didn't realise until now quite how much he needed it, just how pleasant it would feel for Wilson to stroke his hair and continue to murmur reassurances, promises that he'll help him through this. Things still feel bad. Things feel so bad it's like they'll never be okay again. But if he has Wilson, at least there's some hope that they might be.

House is always right.


End file.
